


apparent horizon

by ceeturnalia (traveller)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There is nothing more beautiful, Aramis thinks, than his love, ablaze with righteous fury.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	apparent horizon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [here we are millionaires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000334) by [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori). 
  * Inspired by [Une histoire de bleu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837783) by [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia). 



> a companion piece to my _[Une Histoire de Bleu](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1837783?view_full_work=true)_ , and also to Melly's _[Here we are millionaires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2000334?view_full_work=true)_ ; a scene out of sight from the former, and out of time from the latter. 
> 
> reading recommended but not strictly required.

_Phuket, Thailand. Saturday, November 22. 23:42 local time_

 

"I was really hoping to avoid this conversation for a few more days," Aramis says, taking a step backward, and another. He smiles his most winning smile. He's gone great distances on that smile. "Or weeks. Christmas, perhaps. A time for unburdening one's soul and all that."  
  
Porthos, who's known Aramis since his smiles were still slightly bucktoothed and their result was largely pity, is unmoved. And angry. Lord, he is _angry_. He's been keeping it down all day, all evening, through Ann – through _Madame's_ impromptu shopping trip after the rain finally stopped, through a late dinner which dragged on through far more champagne than you'd think someone that slender could possibly hold, Porthos' patience stretched to its absolute limits, and Aramis is sorry, really, he is so very sorry. 

"Oh, you know what they say. No time like the present," Porthos says, and his smile is _terrifying_. 

There is nothing more beautiful, Aramis thinks, than his love, ablaze with righteous fury. 

His back hits the balcony doors, and they rattle in their frames. Porthos has long been the only man who could make him retreat. 

"Technically," Aramis points out, "we've already had this conversation. And came to some firm conclusions, that don't need revisiting, I don't think an—mmmph." 

Unfortunately, years of conditioning mean that Aramis' brain no longer associates Porthos' hand clapping over his mouth with _shut up_ or _danger;_ instead his knees go rubbery and he lets out a needy little whine. Porthos pulls his hand back, something dangerously close to disgust on his face, and that—that. That gets him. He drops his hands to Porthos' hips, his forehead to Porthos' shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I fucked up, I know." 

He hears, feels Porthos sigh; feels Porthos' hands curl at the small of his back. "Most of that was Spanish," Porthos says, giving Aramis a little shake. "You always slip into Spanish when you're feeling guilty." 

Aramis looks up and shrugs one shoulder. "Well, _lingua mater_ and all that. I'm _sorry."_

"I knew," Porthos says, lifting a hand and running it up one of Aramis' braces, giving it a little snap near the breast. "Soon as she said she was going to _lie down_ the rest of the day. I knew, and you knew, and you practically announced it there at the table, Jesus Christ--" 

Porthos' voice is rising, and Aramis swallows hard. "There's just something—“ he tries, but Porthos breaks away, turns from him to pace the center of the room. 

"We did have this conversation," Porthos says. "And you agreed. You would leave this one alone. You would let it _go_." 

"It's the last time. It was the last time." 

"I wouldn't care, Aramis, I wouldn't give a single shit about it, you could fuck her for breakfast every morning, if that made you _happy_ , if it was _anyone else_. Christ, you got _caught,_ Aramis. Do you think Armand du Plessis would care that it was the _last time_?Do you think he wouldn't still have you shot in the back of the head and dumped in the Seine for us to find?" 

"Armand du Plessis couldn't take me on his best day and my worst," Aramis blusters. "Besides, it was just d'Artagnan." 

"Why are you playing this off?" Porthos demands. "Why the fuck don't you take it seriously?" 

Aramis blinks. "You're really scared," he says, wondering. "I mean, you are, actually, frightened that something might happen." 

"Of course I am, you idiot!" Porthos yells, turning back and crossing the room with three long strides. He pushes Aramis back up against the doors, hard enough to hurt. "What the hell happens to me without you, huh? What the fuck do I do if you're gone?" 

Aramis puts his hand on Porthos' cheek, thumb brushing the tip of his scar. The first time he touched this face it was unmarked, although even then it was far from unhurt. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "my love, don't. Don't worry." 

"If I didn't worry," Porthos snaps, "you'd be dead a dozen times over." 

"Thirteen," Aramis agrees. 

"I was doing you a favor not counting that one."

"Might as well be honest, if we're being honest." Aramis leans in, presses a long kiss to Porthos' mouth. Porthos catches his wrist. 

"She doesn't make you happy," Porthos says in a low voice. "You know if. I wouldn't care." 

That is it, that is the heart of the matter, Aramis thinks, excusing the pun. Porthos and he have a long history, longer than nearly anyone knows, and it's true, what he said to d'Artagnan: Porthos' love is like very universe itself, ever expanding, without border or constraint. It is enormous and it is forever and Aramis feels humbled before it, at how Porthos can give and give and give of his heart to Aramis and never run low. 

They have been over this, yes. If Aramis is happy, Porthos is happy, and Anne does not make him happy. The first time, perhaps, it was something like joy that he found with her, but after? No. 

Anne is a good person. She is a beautiful, sensual, clever woman -- far stronger and smarter than anyone gives her credit for being. She's kind, and she's generous, almost to a fault. Aramis has seen her take a diamond off her hand and give it to a fan on the street, because she can, because she wanted to. 

And because she can, because she wants to, she fucks Aramis. Because her husband holds her far too cheaply and she knows it, because every time she gets away with it, she feels like she's won something. 

In the moment, he loves it. He loves that she's wild and uninhibited, that she wants him so fiercely that she'll take this risk – forgetting, in the moment, that the real risk is all his, that almost anyone could be what she wants, that he is convenient and willing and little more. 

He does, genuinely, like her. He believes she likes him in return. But a casual fondness, no matter how sincere, is not nearly enough to wash away the knowledge that he's being used. 

She does not, she cannot, make him happy. That is what Porthos will never forgive.

"I know," he says, kissing Porthos again. "I know, you're right. It's done, I promise." 

Porthos doesn't say that Aramis promised last time. He holds Aramis back against the doors and kisses him instead, takes the vow out of his mouth with his teeth. 

When the alarm on Porthos' phone goes, Aramis startles; he bangs his head on the glass behind him, and Porthos laughs, his breath warm and sour against Aramis' lips. 

"Shift change," Porthos says, turning off the alarm with a gleam in his eye. "S'midnight." 

"You devious bastard," Aramis says admiringly. "You picked this fight _on schedule_." 

"I picked this fight," Porthos corrects, stepping back and wiping his beard with his cupped palm, "because I was ready to throttle you, and this was the first practical moment to do it." 

"Devious." 

"Tactical," Porthos mutters, shaking his head. "I'm going to go check on the ladies, then pass off to Athos and d'Artagnan. They better be wearing clothes when they answer the door." 

"Who, the girls or the boys?" Aramis walks over to the bed and yanks the covers back, shrugs out of his braces and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

"Both. Either. Stop trying to distract me." 

Aramis holds up both hands, and his shirt falls open. "I'm doing nothing of the sort, darling." 

Porthos is gone perhaps ten minutes, certainly not fifteen; Aramis doesn't count and he doesn't check. He strips and turns out all the lights but one; he opens the balcony doors, letting the humid night in. 

He's lying on the bed, stretched out on his belly with his cheek on his folded arms, luxuriating in the heat, when he hears the door open again. It closes a second later with a bang.

"Now, ain't that a sight," Porthos rumbles. Aramis feels fingers trail down the back of his calf, over the sole of his foot. His toes curl. 

"Nobody else gets to see you quite like this, do they?" Porthos goes on. He runs two fingers over the back of Aramis' knee, and Aramis' cock jerks between the sheets and his belly. "Nobody else can. Nobody else knows what I know." 

He doesn't answer, he doesn't need to. Porthos already knows the answer anyway: no, nobody else gets this, not quite like this. It's impossible. 

He hears thumps – shoes hitting the floor, wallet hitting the nightstand. The jingle of coins, the whisper of fabric, the snap of elastic. He can picture every movement, each inch of that familiar body as it is bared: brown skin, black hair, wide hands, thick cock. The scar on his thigh, the two on his back, one on his side. He has spent days on Porthos. Months. 

"You're sweating already." Now Porthos' hand swipes down the back of Aramis' thigh, squeezing the muscles there. "I'm going to fuck you till you soak the sheets." 

Aramis shudders, shifts back into Porthos' touch with a moan. "Do it.” 

The bed dips under Porthos' weight, and both hands come down on Aramis' ass, thumbs holding him open for a moment before letting go. He growls, and Porthos laughs. 

"You want it so bad. You want my cock so bad, look at you. You'd take it just like this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Aramis hisses through his teeth, arching into Porthos' hands, rocking forward to get more friction on the sheets. 

They'd fucked the night before, slow and sweet, face to face and with all the ease of their long years together. This is not like that, Aramis thinks, digging his teeth into his lip as Porthos slicks him open, broad fingers spreading him wide. This is not romance. This is ownership. These are the viscera of love, the blood and bile and breath.

"Fuck," he gasps when Porthos begins working his cock into him, sweat burning his eyes when he lifts his head. It's so good; it's always like the first time all over again, the shock of it, the unbelievable heft of it, making him ache with fullness. Nobody else makes him feel like this. Nobody ever could. 

"That's right," Porthos says, "open up, baby, take it. Take it all, c'mon, _fuck."_

 _"Christ_ ," Aramis shouts against his pillows. "God, fuck, _Porthos_." 

He loses track of everything but the shunt and shove of Porthos inside him, the heavy hands on his hips, the creak of the mattress and the slam of the headboard. He's sobbing into the pillow, and biting down on his own arm trying to stop, and it's perfect, it's perfect. 

They sprawl together afterward, Aramis still on his belly, Porthos draped over him to one side, their legs tangled. Porthos kisses along Aramis' shoulder, bites at the base of his neck. "D'you reckon she heard that next door?" he says, and Aramis groans. 

"I think they heard that in the next city," he says, turning his head for a brief collision of mouths. "But if you were trying to send a message, I'm going to guess it was probably received." 

Porthos props himself up on his elbow, and Aramis looks up at him, too satisfied and weary to move any further. Porthos looks unbearably fond, but a little sad, and Aramis wants to chase the latter expression away forever. He would do anything, he promises, God, I will do anything. 

"If you're ever—" Porthos starts, and Aramis shakes his head. 

"No." 

"You don't even know what I was going to say." 

"Yes, I do, and it's as stupid as every other time you've said it. No. Never. We decided, remember?" Aramis struggles to sit up then, finally disentangling himself enough to shift upright. " _We_ _decided_ ," he repeats. 

Porthos is everything, he thinks, gazing at the man. Porthos is every sun and every moon, every star that still burns and every one long since exploded; he is every planet known and unknown and those yet unformed. He is making and unmaking; he is light years and he is seconds. 

"You decided," Porthos says, eyelashes dipping and his dimples flashing. "I was already there." 

"I'm staying," Aramis says, catching Porthos' face in his hands. "My love, I am staying right here." 


End file.
